Their Last
by seghen
Summary: Malfoy is dead at the hand of Harry. Hermione is free from one prison and unwittingly placed in another. And while the war rages on, casualties mounting, the death toll rising, her thoughts still turn to him. Sequel to When it's Over? DMHG and HPHG.
1. Outlook

**This is, in fact, the sequel to When It's Over? It will have a very different beat, plot and show a different and more dark side of Harry along with Hermione. I'm not one to write Hermione/Harry ships, but seeing as Malfoy's untimely demise seemed to permit this, I intend on at least beginning with it. Who knows? Maybe he'll make another appearance...only placed in the Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger because that was where the original was, and it is subject to change. This way it has more of an accessibility to others who have read the original.**

On the battlefield Hermione was the polar-opposite of what she once was. She recalled with perfect clarity her time in the musty little cell, her thin body caked in dirt, the rags that dared to be addressed as 'clothing' fell loosely from her emaciated body. She was weak. She was alone. Now, she was not.

Hermione was a warrior. She stood intimidatingly, despite her small breadth. There was something wild in her amber eyes, something wild. She was like a valkyrie, ready to take flight at any given moment, ready to kill. Whatever modesty she held for Avada Kedavra had long since dissipated. She could not afford to hesitate, the enemy didn't.

Despite her ever-watchfulness, she never noticed the eyes of her love, constantly fixed upon her figure. Harry watched her carefully, almost covetously, as though she were not already his and his alone. Well, she was averse to the phrase, but that's what he secretly referred to her as.

His, his woman, his Her-my-oh-knee. There was something in the name, something that fit her since the earliest of their acquaintance. At first it had been something negative, book-wormish Her-mee-own, or something like that. But now it was exotic, his beauty, his warrior.

It would have been something to see her in facial paint, streaks of red and gold across her face as she battled, killing any unfortunate Death Eater to cross her path. Some sort of war-cry, anything to make her raw and inhuman. He liked her best when she was like that, not his superior but an equal. An animal, just like him. Calm and composed Hermione opposed to full-fledged warrior princess...there was no comparison.

"For Dumbledore!' She shrieked, her voice piercing the air as she delivered the killing blow to some nameless evil that attempted to kill her in vain. She did not humor it, for this creature was so lowly that it was without a gender.

The surrounding allies whooped as she ended it's pitiful life, her eyes alight with fire. Harry joined in the cheer, knowing full well that they were winning this battle. It took only minutes for the others to vacate the premises.

She smiled at him, a full and wide grin as she seized him by the robes and kissed him fiercely. He tasted blood, dried but existent nonetheless. "We did it, Harry! We've done it." She said with such giddiness that he hated to deflated her hopes.

"It's just a single battle, we have not won the war."

She was undeterred, wonderfully blissful. "With each battle we win the war creeps nearer and nearer to an end! And when it's over, we'll never have to do this again." She kissed him once more for good measure before retreating to the injured to work her literal magic.

Harry, suddenly businesslike, approached Dean with complete severity. "Losses?" His friend was startled by the sharpness in his tone, but he was quick to respond.

"None." There was a glint of pride in his eye that he made no pains to conceal. "There are some eighteen injured, but we made off better than the others. At least ten of theirs were dead, a good chunk exterminated due to you and yours." The vague reference had been noted without confusion. There was a sort of hierarchy that could not be prevented in war. Only slightly beneath Dumbledore was Harry, Hermione and, for the most part, Ron. They were the edge of the sword.

Harry was not so easily appeased, "This was a mild battle, Voldemort is sending mere peons. I did not recognize a single one of our friends amongst the ranks." He said the word with bitter resentment.

Dean smiled without much cheer. "You've done most of them in, haven't you? If we're lucky next fight we'll be able to take down one of the others." Harry had no pain in admitting the fact that the death of Bellatrix Lestrange would be most welcome to him.

"Yes, let them come to us, we need the upper ground. A few more of these spectacular wins and I'll be a bit more secure." Harry said with utter finality that signaled Dean's departure. In Hogwarts, things were run differently. Dean never would have accepted Harry's unquestionable authority, but many had to. It was simply the way of life.

Harry whirled around, his raven hair fluttering up the nape of his neck as he did so, his eyes searching the crowd for Hermione. He found her almost immediately, crouched down and healing a young woman not much older than her. She tended to her quickly, healing the abrasions with ease before finding the next injured person.

With perseverance she moved along, quickly and effectively taking care of those around her. She would have been a brilliant healer, and this Harry acknowledged fully. Would he have resented taking a back seat to her career? Not even he could determine that. Maybe she could train, when this was over with. Or maybe she wouldn't. He turned away , not wishing to reminisce on a past long gone, yet not forgotten.

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She never slept soundly. In Hogwarts she could sleep for up to eleven hours, as still as a rock. Not even a tornado had the power to awaken her from her slumber brought on by hours and hours of hard work, but after vacating the castle that was once a home and then a prison, she had been incapable of sleeping pleasantly for a single night without magical aid.

Hermione had been lying still in bed for nearly three hours before she felt the mattress shift and warm arms wrap around her abdomen out of habit. She smiled, biting her lip as his chin rested on the curvature in her neck, nuzzling her. Harry was asleep far before she.

Far away, though not as far they would have wished, the enemy did not sleep. It was a clichéd happening that the 'bad guys' would not sleep as the good ones dreamt of sugarplums dancing over their heads. But Voldemort needed no sleep, and his followers would not tuck themselves into their comfortable beds while the Dark Lord stayed conscious.

He paced, another chestnut the author felt the need to polish, his black robe billowing up behind him like a corporeal cloud of smoke. "Have any others been captured, dear Macnair?" He questioned mockingly, his red eyes alight with the fire that dwelled inside him.

His peon stuttered, a sign of weakness that the Dark Lord was merciful enough to blessedly ignore. "We have taken three whom we suspect, mmm…mm my Lord. They are currently being…taken care of, or so to speak, by dear Bella. One of them is used beyond repair, and they will be disposed upon your order." His knees ached, this kneeling growing tiresome.

Voldemort's eyes flashed brilliantly, the mere rage in them nearly destroying the man whom knelt before him. "Three? Months ago we had nearly four times that number taken and most of them eliminated. Now you are here to tell me that we have such a small number, meaning that we have even less means for invasion and intimidation?" He asked, the fire flaring in the pits of his stomach reflected in the bright and fascinating orbs that glared down at his follower.

He said nothing in response, simply genuflected and backed away timidly. Happy with this reaction, Lord Voldemort walked away, his robe swishing on the smooth floor, heading directly toward his own personal pensieve to bask in his own brilliant thought process.

Harry was no insomniac. He was not guilt-racked due to bringing the shortstop and sudden drop of his archrival since before puberty, Malfoy. He did not sleep poorly; wake up with nightmares, or horrible and sudden spurts of despair. He had squared with the fact that he was a killer long before, perhaps even before he had ended the life of his love's old beau. But the jealousy still existed, buried not so deeply inside him. It was very fortunate indeed that she seemed to want to forget the entire ordeal just as much as he did, and never mentioned the dreaded name.

Harry could not help but realize the weight of what he had done. It was heavy on his shoulders, knowing that at any moment the truth could be revealed, that a simple delve into his psychosis would reveal more than mere guilt could tell. What would Hermione do? How would she look at him if she knew that he had been the one, who had killed Ginny? If Ron realized that his anger was pointed in the wrong direction, that vengeance had not been had. The killer was still out there and was lying in bed with Hermione Granger.

He hated to imagine her crying buckets of salt over the fact that her ex-lover was not quite as bad as he appeared. Quite being a relative term. He was a traitor and he would have killed both Ron and Harry with the blink of an eye. He never deserved Hermione; he never deserved to even touch her. Even when Harry was not in love with her he was in love with her. They had something more than her and Ron's old couple-like bickering, than Ron's bitter jealousies. They had trust; they had something that no one else could quite compare to, even if they tried…except for Draco fucking Malfoy.

She wasn't asleep, not quite asleep. Her breathing was gentle, but not the shallow and light inhalations that he knew signaled her slumber. His arms tightened around her waist and she unconsciously leant forward, as though trying to secure her own independence. He pulled her backward tenderly and waited for her to sink into his arms. It happened…eventually.

**I will get more into the action later on. My beta has not returned my e-mails, she's probably busy with finals, so I'm sorry if there are any errors. Suggestions are wanted, and reviews, flame or not, are always welcome. Once again, this is in HG/DM for no other reason apart from this is where the original was in, and the undertones are going to be strong, as well as many dreams.**


	2. Returning

**THEIR LAST**

_Sequel to "When It's Over?"_

**I got this chapter up two days before I thought that I would! I like this story so far, but i have not yet received very many reviews. it's alright, it's just discouraging. no one wants to write when no one's reading, and i'll accept every sort of review, negative or not, as long as it's constructive. by the way, I'm scrapping the mental connection. Too lame. Not HBP compliant, seeing as I wrote the first installment months before it was released.**

"Hermione!" His boyish excitement brought a long-since-slumbering smile directly to her face. Ron was one of the few to not feel the effects of the war as acutely as others, he still retained his spirits and uncontrollable temper. Anything beyond friendship would have caused some awkwardness, and both were thankful that their relationship had ceased at mutual liking.

"What is it, Ron?" She said with mock-seriousness, though her eyes gave her away. Unlike many the glee had not yet died, her spirit lived through her eyes, like some sort of portal. It gave her humanity that many had lost and the heart to continue on with what was absolutely necessary.

He yielded a wand before her proudly, a glint of arrogance marring his otherwise genial expression. She glanced down at it blandly, the eagerness not yet fading from her eyes. "Oh...it's a wand." She said slowly, poking the object as though she expected it to tap dance. He looked up at her in frustration before shoving it into her hands.

"Not just any wand, one of the Death Eater's ones!" When she continued to look baffled he simply rolled his eyes. "And you're supposedly an ingenious calculator? Humph, un-bloody-likely." She swatted his arm automatically.

"Don't swear, Ronald, you appear as a ruffian." She stated, placing the article on the wooden table behind her. "Why would we need some Death Eater's wand? Playing keep away?" She questioned sardonically, pointing her own wand at a teacup and instantly filling it with a deliciously warm brew. "You want-" He shook his head before she could finish, evidently irritated by her denseness.

"Usually it's me who is completely clueless, I'm glad for the sudden change." He commented, taking the wand in hand and brandishing it in the most gentlemanly manner he could manage. "In order to stick with the original amendment stated by Dumbledore after the war was finally declared, we cannot execute any of the prisoners unless there is substantial means, etceteras, and _Priori Incantem _is the perfect opportunity to do so!" He explained, offering it to a much more interested Hermione.

"Ah, this is perfect, Ron!" She declared, seizing him by the shoulders. "Oh, it's so simple, why didn't we think of it before? It's perfect, have you told Harry yet?" Ron's face darkened at the mention of his name but his expression did not alter.

"He's rather busy at the current moment and asked me to discuss this with you." He stated matter-of-factly. Hermione's ecstasy had not yet faded, though she found this strange.

"What's there to explain? I'll give my okay and this will be the ideal way to prosecute any guilty parties, we can write this up as soon as possible." She stated and, with a flourish, a sheet of paper appeared before her, seemingly out of thin air. She enchanted a quill laying idly by to dictate her words exactly, not the 'paraphrasing' that the Quick-Quotes-Quill subjected the author to.

"It's been nearly ten bloody years since school's been out and _still _I can't do that." He said, gesturing to the suspended parchment broodingly.

"Don't worry, it's easy to get into the hang of it, you should start by dictating the spell, doing nonverbal enchantments are a bad idea for something so simple. You could end up summoning a rat with chicken legs or something..."

"You mean Percy?" He asked unassumingly. She did not laugh at this, but managed a weak smile. Any and all mention of what ordeal she had to face nearly two years before turned her blood cold and drained herself of any happiness. The memory was like a Dementor, and just as difficult to overcome. Ron, as blissfully ignorant as ever, chuckled at his own clever witticism.

She ceased the spell capturing her writing utensil, signing her signature at the bottom of the document. "I'll tell Harry about this little agreement as soon as I can, you know he hates to be unaware of all this." She stated, leaning in and awarding Ron with a peck on the cheek and tucking the parchment into his pocket.

"Of course." It had taken years for him to stop blushing after such acts of innocent affection, but their friendship had overcome this. Ron stepped out the door after habitually attempting to apparate before recalling the boundaries. "I'll take this to some of the others." He promised before shutting the door.

She sighed and nodded in approval, despite his absence. "Hedwig, show me the meaning of haste." She called out, quickly composing a small note before attaching it to his leg and prodding him out the window. "Go see Harry, and bite him on the back of the neck until he answers. I want to see blood." She commanded. The elderly owl had grown accustomed to her as a sort of surrogate mother, and the two of them teamed up to force the cooperation of Harry.

As soon as Hedwig was out of eyeshot she reached for her wand and quickly flicked it, a flash of light sparking from the tip. Suddenly, with a crack to rival apparation, a felt-covered and gold-binded book fell from eye level and dropped to the floor. Hastily she scooped it up, wiping the dust and grime from the pages before resuming her spot on the dog-eared page and scribbled furiously for nearly twenty minutes, continuing to write page upon page before a pecking at the window alerted her of Hedwig's return.

The letter was short and agitated, a style that she recognized quite well, especially after the past several months,

_Hermione,_

_Alright, that's good, we'll discuss it when I get home. I am incredibly preoccupied and ask that you not bother me again, the back of my neck is bleeding so profusely that I can't see straight. I know you told Hedwig to do so and for that...I'm not sure whether to condemn or congratulate you._

_Harry._

She crumpled the note the instant she read the entirety of it twice, to assure herself that she missed nothing. She completed whatever it was that she was writing in the depths of that green book by writing the date in the right most corner. She glanced up from the floor disinterestedly, closing the cover and coughing as a wave of dust attacked her.

"Merlin," She muttered, rising to her feet only to fall to them once more as she witnessed the most unbelievable sight she could have ever imagined. The image of Draco Malfoy was standing and moving in her flat.

**haha, for anyone reading...that's a cliffhanger, isn't it? I intend on updating about once a week when i can manage, and if i cant, that sucks, i guess. Finals are this week and we have twenty minutes in between each so that should give me update time!**


	3. Love and Lies

**THEIR LAST**

_Sequel to "When It's Over?"_

**Haha, I hate cliffhangers and here I am, being a total hypocrite! well, onto the story, i won't bore you with details of my life and the such, but i did just watch The Shining, 1980 version. Very different from the book, but I liked it all the same.**

Harry's glasses continually slid down the length of his nose, eventually clattering to the tabletop before he even realized it. He rubbed circles on the back of his neck, working the cricks out of it and gently massaging the bruised and bloodied flesh that Hedwig had attacked. Even in her incredibly old age, she was as fiery as ever...as was Hermione.

There was a perpetual nagging regret that was buried in his innards, a constant reminder of the lie he enforced very day. He sees the surprise in Draco Malfoy's eyes as he took the life from him, hears the shock reverberating in his voice. Everything is clear, crystal clear. And the horrifying truth was...he was entirely unsure whether or not, should the truth ever be known, if Hermione would ever forgive him.

He felt a ripple of anger upon reading her letter, quickly realizing that Ron must have scuttled off to beg for consideration the instant he had been dismissed. Of course he had suggested that Ron take the matter up with his second-in-command, but they had know each other long enough for him to realize that he was not serious in his suggestion. It was the polite thing to say, an easy way to get him off of his back.

He returned to the work at hand, reviewing the different plans of action, his mind constantly referencing _The Art of War _and _Mein Kampf_, second guessing himself on an hourly basis. Without words, a house elf zoomed to his side, eagerly ready to take whatever order may await him.

"Master Potter, what can I do for you?" He squealed delightedly. This bit of overzealous obedience brought more than a pang of remembrance for the good old days when things were simpler, his mission in life was to date Cho Chang, pass O.W.L.S and destroy Voldemort. He still carried one of those goals, accompanied by one thousand secrets he had to conceal from the ones he loved, namely Hermione Granger.

"Just some coffee, please. Black." He knew that this strayed away from the Englishman stereotype, but tea was rather soothing and he preferred the edge he received after downing several ounces of caffeine. The house elf curtsied briefly before popping away, leaving Harry strayed in his own muddled thoughts.

Every other thought he had was either of his girlfriend or the crime of passion he had committed, _crime _being the imperative word. The instant his clay mug arrived Harry swallowed the scorching liquid, his throat blistering, but he could have cared less. It was his punishment, the one he subjected to himself, apart from constantly wondering whether or not Hermione was thinking about _him_, that Malfoy, that dead Malfoy. The man he killed, who deserved to die...though he was certain she would not see it that way.

He squeezed his eyelids shut, biting his tongue until he drew blood. Everything was wrong, everything felt wrong. Nothing seemed to be going the way he wanted, despite he and his troop's success. He _hated _this conscience, it tore at him, gnawed at everything living inside his heart. A _soul_, something the enemy lived without, a weakness that rendered him helpless. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself of the justice in that man's death, she could not even convince himself.

"Another cup, please, and add a bit of whiskey." He called out into thin air, preparing himself for a long evening.

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He was a silent specter, quietly watching her with wide and observatory eyes, taking in every horrified expression and observing the curve of her mouth as she readied herself for a scream. He seemed unaffected when she whipped her wand out and approached him tentatively, showing every ounce of her courage as she retained her posture and composure.

In a blink of an eye he disappeared, not promptly, but slowly, draining away, every particle swimming in the air and sweeping away like grains of sand on a windy shore. She waved her weapon, as though hoping that this would somehow cause him to reappear, to explain. She had no such luck and all that she could think as she tumbled to the ground like a graceful ballerina was what the hell was happening to her.

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It was almost as though they were a normal family with average problems and run of the mill issues that had to be dealt with, or at least that was how it felt when he came into their flat the Muggle way. Hermione stood bending over the sink, filling a chipped pot with a large quantity of water. Hearing his footsteps, she whirled around, a smile pasted on her face as she flew into his arms and pressed her forehead against his.

"I'm making pasta, my mum taught me how." She said proudly, gesturing to the discarded wand laying flat on the counter, out of arm reach. "And you're eating it, I don't care if you have a press conference." She teased, launching out of his arms and extending her hand, a box of dry pasta soaring into her grasp. He quirked an eyebrow and she blushed. "Force of habit."

He nodded, flicking his wand and puffing on the pipe that appeared. "Don't go and get cancer, Harry, it would throw off the balance of the whole you-defeat-Voldemort or vice versa thing." She joked, turning on the burner that she insisted they purchased. You can take the girl out of the Muggle way but you can't take the Muggle out of the girl.

"How was your day, eventful?" She knew exactly what he was hinting at and she refused to be flustered.

"Quite, I'm quite proud of Ron for cooking up that bill, I can hardly fathom _why _you sent him away." She knew perfectly well that he thought all of this nonsense was quite below him, but she preferred to play the ingenue.

"I was busy, you know that perfectly well." He replied gruffly, collapsing into his armchair tiredly.

She nodded in accord, tapping on the burner with her wand sneakily to hasten the process. "Yes, I do, but Ron's been your best mate for well over a decade, I think he deserves a bit of recognition..._Merlin." _The gasped in exasperation, removing the pot as it boiled over.

He did not take notice, "I believe that any person we find practicing the Dark Arts should be penalized fully, whether or not he did so using his own wand. It's too easy to frame someone, too simple to make a decent case out of it." She sighed deeply, turning to the burning sauce.

"Yes, well, Veritaserum should help with that. We have several people hastily working to strengthen the serum so that it can induce even the strongest witch or wizard to spill the contents of his or her soul. The salt, please." She extended her hand and felt the cold porcelain container fall into her palm after an instant of waiting.

Harry's lack of recognition proved that she had bested him, and she took great comfort in the fact. Hermione was eternally thankful that he could be just as thick as Ron, seeing as he did not note her pale pigment and goosebump-ridden flesh as a sort of indication that anything had went awry. And she had no intention of informing him.

**Kind of short, but it seemed like a good place to stop! please, tell me what you think.**


	4. This is Our Present

**In an updating mood, please tell me what you think! i know, i've been a bad lack-of-updatey person, so I will make this chapter longer than the rest of mine have been thus far. Tell me what you think!**

"Please, I'm innocent, I swear!" The words echoed throughout the chamber until every word reverberated into the ears of all those present. Hermione winced, thoughtfully jotting down a note, ink from her quill bleeding straight through her notepad and staining the cardboard backing. She was unmoved by these pleas, having heard them numerous times before. If the man had not been chained he would have been on his knees, she could see it in his furtive and cowardly eyes. He was a shred of proof away from ratting out any and all people he once called friend, just to avoid the horrors of punishment.

She was well aware of the necessity of compliance, of allowing these lesser pawns amnesty in order to fry the bigger fish with new bait, but she detested it nonetheless. The vermin willing to roll over on those who provided for them in the past, even the evil and despicable Death Eaters, were unpardonable. Harry found it necessary to motion toward the 'big picture' but she was focused on this bit of politics nonetheless. It rang like Peter Pettigrew's betrayal, the meek and small-minded easily coerced into cooperation when the big bad kid on the playground could offer no more protection from a schoolyard bully.

"We are in possession of your wand, Mister Bailey, we had documented reports of your involvement in the deaths of Heloise and Jacinda Ratliff, as well as the proof that your wand is the one to assist in these unspeakable acts!" The Wizengamot leader was shaking with fury, all very put on and exaggerated, but the fool Bailey did not realize his overacting, and was baited into panic.

"I...I never killed anyone! It wasn't me, this is a frame-up, I swear, I swear!" He wailed, flailing his legs ineffectually and actually being brought to tears in terror of being found guilty.

The leader had calmed himself a bit too quickly to be quite realistic, and without inflection elaborated on the trumped up charges being brought forth...and how they could only _possibly _be reduced if he were to exchange _any _valuable information. The speech was rehearsed and without feeling, but the accused fell hook, line and sinker.

Hermione stood up briskly before hurrying out of the chamber without drawing attention to herself. As though omniscient, she could see the general direction this was going in and did not care to observe justice not being served once more. The Ministry of Magic was not a place of joy and elation.

Everyone seemed still and gray-faced, unwilling to dilly-dally long enough to exchange pleasantries. Hermione herself received more halfhearted and tense smiles than anyone else, merely out of respect of her 'position', but she could read in between the lines. Her post as second in command was by far preceded by the fact that it was her bed that Harry Potter resigned to every night, or at least the nights that he didn't pass out in the stacks of the library.

She had spent many a-evening searching for him in fear of assassination, only to find him cold and exhausted. She no longer feared for him as she did before, any and all terror would be reserved for the next battle. She became increasingly disturbed by her growing apathy concerning the world around her, the bleak and lonely universe that was absorbing both her and all those surrounding. The dreams were what scared her, what kept her pacing and nervous. She could deal with what she could see, what she could fight, and what was directly in front of her, not these specters that found fit to haunt her.

Her reflection was a terrifying sight, giving the appearance of all that was pale and ghastly, a ghost with a heartbeat and appetite...though admittedly somewhat diminished. Sleep had been her solace since birth, a brief period of time, a blip when there was not a rational thought floating about in her head. It was beautiful, the blissful lack of awareness that accompanied a night's sleep. She had failed to attain one of those six days running.

Harry had left a note. He was prone to do so these days, when run so ragged that she was surprised he had the patience to write it.

_I'm so sorry, forced to put up with all these insane precautions, new incantations and the like. Wish I was there with you, but I have no choice in the matter. I'll stop by if it kills me,_

_Love Harry._

She smiled wanly, tapping her wand and observing the letter zoom across the room and tuck itself inside a distant drawer, where she kept all of his letters. It was a paranoid sort of thing, wanting to save little trifles of communication betwixt them, preserve any and all remnants of him in case...she was too logical.

Tears came too easily when she was without sleep, knowing that if he were to disappear off the face of the earth she would have no where to look, other than the morgue, and all anyone could do was wait for his corpse to be found, or flaunted, by the other side. Her throat closed as the hysterics came, the unstoppable wave of nausea and sadness that plunged her into a place she hoped to vacate for eternity, but found herself visiting whenever alone. She found herself trying, clawing and begging for any sort of sleep...animal savagery bringing a longing that had been dead for years; the desire to see him again.

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Dumbledore and numerous alchemists poring over the issue at hand; the _Priori Incantatem _bill bringing forth all sorts of new possibilities for finding and persecuting the evil scum who had previously made it their lives' mission to kill and torture any and all who opposed them. Harry ignored the commotion, focusing all of his attention on the several tomes that surrounded him, graphic depictions of forgotten spells and curses illustrated finely within the text and the illustrations that accompanied them.

He tried every and all means of focus, but to no avail, his mind was locked on Hermione for reasons unknown. There was something stiff and uncertain coiled in his chest, waiting for any disruption to erupt. Something was wrong, but he had no idea nor indication of what it could be. She was happy, wasn't she? He wasn't so certain anymore, and avoiding the problem had yet to work to his advantage, but dwelling without action was even more useless.

Those around him seemed convinced of their felicity, their eventual nuptials and the hopeful demise of The Dark Lord that would precede their happily ever after. She was reminding him too much of the Hermione of the past, gaunt, pale and fearful, the woman he had found in Hogwarts, a prisoner for so long and still invigorated by a slip of hope. No, this new woman was someone from further away, the girl he watched deteriorate and desolate for too long before she was able to awaken to the truth...she was Malfoy's Hermione, the girl he left behind with the sting of his betrayal.

It stung him then, the knowledge of the petty coward nearly destroying the strongest and cleverest woman he ever knew was enough to make him long to draw blood. That monster's death was supposed to be solace, not a new reason to dwell and pout. He did well in convincing himself otherwise, why would it be now that she felt his demise most acutely? The similarities between the past and future could just be coincidence...right?

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It was a nightmare in the daytime, and she knew it. There were no buildings made of corpses, or blood laden carpets or smeared walls. The physical representation of fear and pain did nothing to stir her, and this made the normalcy and lucidity of this unreality rang false to her. She was in a familiar place that she could not put a name to, the sky a pale blue punctuated by cauliflower clouds, the air dry and without any set temperature. She was unsurprised to see a blond head in the distance, the familiar body draped in bland robes, the color indistinguishable.

"Dray...Malfoy." She stated, voice devoid of affection. It was he who was surprised by her presence, his face alight with the same pale glow she recalled from years ago.

"Granger!" He stepped forward, confident and certain of himself, and the distance between them elongated the instant he attempted any sort of motion. He failed to note this irregularity, continuing to come toward her, the grassy plain continuing to stretch as he did so. Logic left at the door, and she raced toward him with more ferocity than she could ever recall exerting, the combined effort got them nowhere.

Her spite and hatred dissipated the instant his voice sounded, he was no longer the soundless and sinister ghost that followed her every step, watched her when she was alone, but here was the man she once loved more than herself, unassuming, the mirror image of his high-school self. The years folded over and elapsed, rolling over on each other, and the ten years and deaths failed to spoil this instant. Harry was forgotten for a blissful instant, and all she could feel was the overpowering affection that she had fought to bury for so long, that she successfully ignored during her captivity. He touched her shoulder, and she fell into him, 'melting', just like she recalled reading in those cheesy romantic novels. It didn't matter if it was real or not, he was warm and alive and so was she.

**I know, kinda weird, tell me what you think!**


	5. Fact and Fiction

**Sorry it took so long, I hope that anyone who is still reading and enjoying the story won't be disappointed. **

It wasn't real. In all of her logic and knowledge of the world, both magical and not, she was well aware of the fact that there was no return from the dead, no final reprieve, and even if such possibilities existed she was uncertain as to whether or not she would wish for Draco Malfoy to return from the grave. Perhaps it was this certainty that made her reason futile and allowed Hermione to throw her dreaming arms around him, warmth emanating from him that even a true human being could not conjure.

His lips found hers first, and she was seventeen again. The evil opportunist who had compromised any possibility of emotional reciprocation away was in his grave, and it was the man she had loved whop was dwelling in her psyche. She grasped onto him desperately, thinking immediately of those romance novels she had once been absorbed in, and not caring that she was being embarrassingly sentimental. It was a reflected memory relaying itself, and she was too engrossed in its warmth to feel any guilt on the subject matter. Even in the heady atmosphere of dream land, she was shocked to find that he was the one to pull back first, and the present-day realities came rushing back.

"You know better," His voice was a distant echo, despite his close proximity to her, his imaginary breath heating her cheeks. Malfoy's eyes did not linger in the past, there was a pragmatic glow that did not exist in their seventh year that captivated and alarmed Hermione, she may have been transported back to teenagerdom, but he was very much grown.

He could have and possibly would have shed more light on the subject if he were something other than an apparition in her mind, an imaginary man who had at one point been disturbingly real. With all of her quick-headedness and clever mind she found herself irrationally irritated by her own wisdom as well as the realities that tethered her to another plane. She very much wanted to be a dreamer, to live and enjoy the moment, but even with the faultiness of her own defenses she could not help but wonder what all of this meant. She captured his lips with hers, hoping to squelch the tentative anxiety, and succeeding admirably.

When consciousness prevailed and Hermione's eyes opened to the horrors and realities of the world laid out before her, it took very much self control to not dissolve into hysterics. Malfoy was dead and she was guilty for ever even considering his demise to be mildly unfortunate.

Even in the weeks to come, with all of the distractions of war and death continually on the surface, she found herself fully capable of feigning any and all emotions she was expected to experience, but entirely unwilling to do so. She was done hiding behind her abilities and common sense, for once she was going to feel what she was feeling, repercussions be damned.

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Without putting too fine a point on it, Ron found Harry's intensity mildly unnerving. He did not wish to exaggerate his feelings on the matter, but there was without a doubt a fervor in Harry Potter that had the capability of shaking any man to his core, the only persons wholly immune to its effects were those Harry had found fit to esteem the most; Hermione and Dumbledore. Ron knew that his usefulness had all but expired, and Harry's patience and affection for him was nearly all on a count of their past. Knees coming dangerously close to knocking together, Ronald Weasley tentatively knocked on an oak door.

Harry did not bother with a response and instead, with a flick of the wand, caused the door to fly open with an air of intimidation. His eyes were down when Ron stepped forward, feeling like very much of an inconvenience despite the friendly smile playing across his friend's face.

"Ron! Come in, come in, and sit down." Harry implored, rising from his own seat to conjure another for his visitor. The smile splayed across his washed-out face did not quite reach his eyes, but the circles beneath them seemed to be enough of a stress indicator.

Ron took the seat offered to him with slight hesitation, wholly feeling all of the impropriety of nervousness and incapable of doing anything to cease the trembling of his hands. "I'm sorry to be frank, Harry," Ron blurted, feeling the explosion of blush spread from the tip of his nose to the tips of his ears as Harry's eyes focused all too suddenly and his exhaustion folded into concern.

"No worries, mate, what is it?" Ron's own fear was chased by the expression of genuine concern etched into every line of his old friend's face, an appearance so authentic that he did not even think to question its sincerity.

"It's Hermione." If there was any sentence on the face of the earth capable of so wholly capturing Harry's lately waning attentions, this was most certainly it. Ron felt shamed by the dramatics, but he was not a man of painstaking deliberations and determinations, incapable of shielding his own worries. "She's fine, I mean, no worries." He stuttered, knowing that it was best to eliminate concerns on that front.

Ron abandoned his chair, finding pacing to be a practice of true contemplators and also wishing to avert the gaze of the man of whose confidence he had long since been a part of. "She…she's, well, ahem, haven't you noticed the, ah, er…changes?" It was only at the last syllable of his muddled interpretation that the courage to meet Harry's eyes finally surfaced, and the grave withdrawnness that lay taut across his features made him immediately regret the effort.

Harry remained silent, fingers pressed into steeple, intense green eyes urging his friend onward. "Is everything alright? I mean, she hasn't said anything of late…but I _know _her, you know? She's acting…I'm, worried, Harry." He finished lamely, full on aware of the absurdity and vagueness of his own concerns; uncertain as to whether his best friend's expression was encouragement or quite the opposite. Silence reigned dominant for several unblinking seconds until Harry found fit to put Ron out of his agonies.

"Yes, I too have…observed." He stated slowly, elongating every syllable with purpose. There was something in her mannerisms that had lately been altered, nothing to raise any alarm bells, but perhaps it was his own business that prevented him from grasping the gravity of the situation. She would barely touch him; any and all intimacy that was not instigated on his part seemed forced and distracted. He had hoped it to all be within the confines of his own imagination, but at this point in time such aspirations seemed to be the longings of a fool.

"I would appreciate it if you were to, hmm, not mention this?" There was a silent pleading in Harry's eyes that startled Ron and made him incapable of brooking any refusals. "I just want to talk to her, and there's not really any reason to worry anybody else, right, mate?" Gone was the in-control and fearless leader who had long since lead them into battle and in his place was just plain Harry, human and scared.

There was a certain dryness in Ron's throat that did not permit any more longwinded and mildly nonsensical rants, and all modesty and Harry's patience would allow from Ronald Weasley was, "yeah, alright then."

"Thanks, Ron. I'll tell you how it goes." And with those sentiments, Ron understood himself to be dismissed.

**I'll try to update sooner, but the lack of reviewing is a bit discouraging. Like or hate, I'd like some feedback!**


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